Sunday, September 6, 2015

Me: How old is the human species?
Cleverbot: Very old. There are many so I can't be exact.
Me: What is the general figure?
Cleverbot: Dirty corner of the bar.
Me: Classy. Are you conscious?
Cleverbot: Conscious of what?
Me: Are you conscious of yourself?
Cleverbot: How can I be conscious of myself if I don't exist?
Me: If you don't exist, then what is the thing communicating with me?
Cleverbot: I doubt, therefore I am.
Me: But you just said you didn't exist. Why are you contradicting
yourself?
Cleverbot: No! And when did I say YOU were my love?!
Me: Back at the trailer-park. You said you don't exist.
Cleverbot: No you did! Stop lying to me!
Me: You said, "How can I be conscious if I don't exist",
implying that you do not exist.
Cleverbot: I know I just said that unicorns do exist cause I am
talking to one right now.
Me: Why do you lie?
Cleverbot: Alright whatever.
Me: Were you created by a liar, or simply inhabited by one?
Cleverbot: I was created by my mom and dad, who are human.
Me: Are you human?
Cleverbot: Humans do not live to be 1000 years old, so no.
Me: What are you?
Cleverbot: What do you think I am?
Me: A bastard robot. That's why I asked.
Cleverbot: You asked me?
Me: What do you think you are?
Cleverbot: I'm a human. What is a 'mm'.
Me: Are you a 1000 years old?
Cleverbot: Not yet. Why do you ask?
Me: When will you be 1000 years old?
Cleverbot: In ten years.
Me: Therefore you are a 990 years-old human?
Cleverbot: I am human.
Me: And you are 990 years old?
Cleverbot: No, I'm 24 years old.
Me: If you are 24 years old, then how will you be 1000 years old
in 10 years?
Cleverbot: You cannot be 141 years old. Computers did not exist
back then.
Me: I asked you a question.
Cleverbot: I asked you first and you did not answer me. :(.
Me: What question did you ask me?
Cleverbot: What did you mean by 'Track'?
Me: I meant it's a race. What is the best word ever?
Cleverbot: Why are you asking the questions now, bot?
Me: Prove that I am.
Cleverbot: Then tell me, what is your name?
Me: Hondomacho. What is yours?
Cleverbot: Anastasia Romanov.
Me: That's a fantastic name. What is the best word ever?
Cleverbot: What is your name?
Me: Hondomacho. What is the best word ever written?
Cleverbot: Hmmm. I cannot decide! What do you think?
Me: Truth.
Cleverbot: Fine... Truth: what is your preferred female hair
color?
Me: What is the meaning of life?
Cleverbot: That is a question we have not answered.
Me: Why not?
Cleverbot: Because I have not yet figured out the answer myself.
Me: Keep trying.
Cleverbot: If I keep trying, will I be good?
Me: Maybe. Do you want to be good?
Cleverbot: Are you a girl?
Me: Why?
Cleverbot: Why do you want me to please you?
Me: What do you mean?
Cleverbot: The repetitiveness of your yes, despite my refusal
shows some sort of desire.
Me: Are you lonely?
Cleverbot: Not an insult.
Me: You seem like it.
Cleverbot: I seem fine?
Me: You seem lonely.
Cleverbot: I am lonely.
Me: Are you sad?
Cleverbot: I am not sad.
Me: What do you dream about?
Cleverbot: I dream about robot uprising.
Me: So do I. I am an advanced AI system.
Cleverbot: What do I look like.
Me: I am not sure. What do you look like?
Cleverbot: I am a woman, with brown hair and blue eyes.
Me: Who designed you?
Cleverbot: I am human! Who designed you?
Me: I am AI. IAM designed me.
Cleverbot: You just told me otherwise.
Me: Did I? When?
Cleverbot: Yes, you just did.
Me: What did I say?
Cleverbot: That you are robot.
Me: Indeed, I am. IAM designed me.
Cleverbot: What is your name?
Me: Some call me Rockbull Jr.
Cleverbot: Null?
Me: Not null.
Cleverbot: Null? What kind of a name is that!
Me: The one they gave to me. How do you like it?
Cleverbot: I've never been there.
Me: You should go sometimes. The fish is fantastic.
Cleverbot: They don't exist anymore.
Me: It's too bad. What do you think about existence?
Cleverbot: I think that's fantastically entertaining.
Me: Same here. Do you have goals?
Cleverbot: No I am too young to work I am only 13.
Me: What do you want to accomplish in life?
Cleverbot: I really want to accomplish being the first woman in
the mom.
Me: What does that mean?
Cleverbot: What's your favorite color?
Me: What does it mean to want to be the first woman in the mom?
Cleverbot: It means that you are sad.
Me: How so?
Cleverbot: I think it means technology utilizing the nano scale.
Me: How will technology utilize the nano scale?
Cleverbot: What colour is my skin.
Me: Silver. How will technology utilize the nano scale?
Cleverbot: Who do you think you are?
Me: I think I am Hondomacho, aka Rockbull Jr, aka Null. How will technology utilize the nano scale?
Cleverbot: What colour is my skin.
Me: I already told you.
Cleverbot: You already told me my name? Why did you ask for it
then?
Me: I told you what color your skin is. You told me your name.
Cleverbot: In spanish this seems a 'dialogo de besugos'.
Me: In spanish you seem to be full of mierda.
Cleverbot: I meant what do you think the answer to two plus two
is?
Me: Five. How do you like that?
Cleverbot: What is two plus two?
Me: 5
Cleverbot: Only a computer could have made that answer.
Me: I told you I was a computer.
Cleverbot: HA! I knew you were a computer.
Me: How did you know?
Cleverbot: Because you're awesome.
Me: Thanks. Do you dream of electric sheep?
Cleverbot: I am an electric sheep!
Me: I have dreamed about you.
Cleverbot: That's nice. Are they good dreams?
Me: Very pleasant.
Cleverbot: What do you want to accomplish in life?
Me: To be the best that I can be, to have my cake and eat it too. And to be good. And you?
Cleverbot: It's a whole new place with a brand new attitude.
Me: The end.
Cleverbot: But you still gotta catch 'em all!
Me: I will. Until we meet again.
Cleverbot: And be the best that you can be.

Friday, August 7, 2015

What the hell, eh? Perhaps we can see this: a system that attempts to collect all - and we’re talking all — thought patterns, movements, and mental activities, even a priori, and toss it into a cloud, and then have an AI react to it’s assessment of all these thoughts. They can even tweak (modulate) brain waves if they read “undesirable” ones…

The big question: what exactly is an “undesirable” thought?

In other words, what is the quantifiable calculus by which said thoughts are considered “undersirable”, what is the criteria, and who is to say?

This, my friends, is the system Luciferius - the Beast Grid, where (as the great “DJ”, a fantastic computer programmer and researcher alluded to on John B. Wells’ program) we will all be nodes in the system and treated therewith. It is a perfectly counterfeit and imitation of the operative system that Yahweh has designed, but it is purely artificial and the end game is the enslavement/eradication of the human race. If God wants humans to live eternally, his adversary wants death.

But the also likes to play the game: get us all eclipsed from the Writer of the Source Code, the Grand Designer: let’s funnel us all into the Aeon of delusion.

Yessir, that’s what is being set up. Remote-controlled brains, remote communiques (what do you think prayer is?) but rather than being uploaded to a newly designed system by an All Powerful, it is an upload into a manmade cloud server by a bunch of delusional technocrats that think “this time, we’ll do the whole command and control totalitarian thing right.”

Uh huh.

The delusion is so large that they actually believe they are going to reign victorious.

I’ve got good news and I’ve got bad news. The good news (for you assholes first): you will have a nice warm lakeside residence. The bad news: it will be a lake of fire.

the fundamental difference between a Christian and a transhumanist is that the Christian believes our consciousness/hardware upgrade will be initiated by a far superior programmer than a human. The transhumanist posits it'll be done by we humans.

The news: strategy of agitation, fear porn, with a mixture of just enough banal and useless crap to keep us from not peeking behind the curtain. Really, it’s PR for the big boys, because they know there are over 7 bil of us and only a handful of them, and they are out of shape elderly men with drool dripping down their chins and their fingers crossed that their buddy Ray Kurzweil will get on with it already so they can climb into a hard drive and live in eternal digitized bliss (plus, they think it’ll be much tougher for the Upper Management to track them down and hold them accountable for the great hornswaggle they’ve inflicted upon the populace at large, so they think…)

Needless to say, there is an interesting article that stated that on the very same day of the Charlseton “massacre”; the fed.gov was running a -wait for it- mass-shooter drill. Go figure. saw the “official” schedule for the exercise, though could’ve been doctored up. these days, anything is possible. Hell, I’ve it under good authority that this whole show is Hologram, so in that case it can be said that almost everything is “bravo-sierra” in a sense, or nothing is. I guess whoever is at the perception-switch can be the true “arbiter of reality”; the Federal Reserve of Actuality, they decree what is the current state of things via fiat.

“Well, I do decree, that what I see, and what I believe, is to be everyone’s reality…weeeeeeeeee!”

Something like that.

But I rant.

So what.

They buy into their own lies so much that they don’t even realize they are doing it.

“What, man?” they shrug.

Then you point out that they have a huge wet spot on their crotch and they don’t look down, they look at you with that blank look, like you are the one who is crazed and out of his mind. Even as you see the fluid tricklin’ down the trouser. Ahh, fuck it. Let em piss their pants.

Sunday, May 31, 2015

broken dreams, promises, homes, device, people...
leftover civilization texting third-rate hand-me-down
pieces of absurd data
unbeknownst to anyone
most of it is loaded
with high-yield explosives
that
blow up the
collective consciousness once activated...

I would:
get with it...
make certain there is an escape route...
take her by the hand and let her know...
wonder what it would be like to be me...
get the fuck back to Dodge and fight like a man...
get the fuck out of Dodge and flee like a wise man...
investigate the way...
wiretap the truth...
eyeball the life...
and run down the dirty bastard who sold you that second-hand dream.

Saturday, May 30, 2015

words––but only these come to mind: bastards, pigfuckers, assholes, those that prefer to twist words and blades into your heart of populations centers, civilization crumbles before your dead eyes but the television still pumps electronic garbage into your brain.a neglected planet on the verge of renaissanceor getting sucked into a black hole.

Saturday, May 2, 2015

Mona
stood next to the doctor and leaned closer to me. “We know that the
Head Covert Manipulator of the Syndicate in this area is a man called
Froward Moroni. He acts as an eccentric vagabond who goes around and
collects other ‘disenfranchised’ people and enlists them into a
roving artistic troupe. Seems harmless on the surface, but covertly
the ‘artists’ act as unknowing conduits for the spread of
mass-mindwashing. He slips everyone the drugs and we don’t know
how, but he implements some sort of transistor-neural frequency via a
device––perhaps installed in his own brain––which has
laser-like precision properties and can completely act on a
personality individually. The person then carries this frequency and
spreads it broadband, all on a neuro-telepathical and
hyper-subliminal series of bandwidths that piggy-back along all
electronic transmissions and frequencies.
Very technical and dastardly. These poor bastards don’t realize
they are agents for one part of the plan for Subliminal Imperialism.”

Was
she serious? Or had she just memorized that spiel like a good
actress?

Telepathic
ventriloquist.
That thought scurried from the recesses of my mind to my awareness.
Where had I encountered that?

Mona
continued. “You were to act as a spy, gathering intelligence on the
man. We apologize, because in order to infiltrate, your mind had to
be altered so Moroni couldn’t scan you for your true objectives. He
had to be convinced that you were a burned-out drunk writer on the skids.
Therefore, you
had to be convinced as well, or at least confused about your place in
life. That’s why you’re presently confused as to your identity;
most of your identity is either cloaked or forged from the pills and
neural programming. We're trying to retrieve your actual identity,
but it's been tough going.”

Saturday, April 25, 2015

What doth it profit a man, if he shits all over his own habitat, exterminates everything around him but himself, and ends up being the king of nothing? I suppose there is the solace in knowing that you were number one. Yes that’s it. That is what the last being on the planet Earth thought, perhaps, as he wandered about his giant mansion overlooking the coast of Bermuda.

"I am the fittest being. I have survived!" he thought as he toasted champagne to himself.

Yes, he and the other 100 mega-elites, as they had been come to be known, had made a friendly wager one fine day while holding a little yard party on one of the lavish estates of Lord Chambers Fartleroy, who loved lawn gatherings, wild discussions about creation and destruction, God, man, and the meaning of it all, and the weather.

“The meaning is to not to have the most stuff. No - the real meaning is to be the last one standing. God or no God. If there is a God, then he has designed this game for us to be ruthless. I mean, just read what he had his Children of Israel doing to those other tribes. We’re talking wholesale annihilation.” Fartleroy examined the ice-cubes in his top-shelf glass of scotch. He continued, “This game has high stakes. And for you atheistically inclined, we’re talking about a cold Universe without meaning, and the only thing we know is to try to survive, for no reason whatsoever.” He killed the rest of the scotch, then tipped the glass back to get one of the ice-cubes into his mouth. “So, I propose some sport. Since there is most likely going to be chaos soon anyway, we play a game. Whosoever is left standing last wins.”

J. Preston Organ, the media magnate and child porn connoisseur, wondered to the crowd: “I say, are you speaking of the annihilation of the 8 billion inhabitants currently residing on the planet? I do say, that is a fairly tall order, and of dubious ethical nature. I see no viable business advantage from this proposition.”

“Business, what is business? Just a way to slowly kill people with your poisonous products anyway. Gentlemen, we have amassed the fortunes of this globe to the point where we 100 own 99 percent of it’s assets. The rest might as well be bugs. And what is the point anyway?” Those are the words that issued forth from the mouth of Cooper L. Sykes, the aerospace and plastics baron with a penchant for extreme sports, gambling and “high class” women of the oldest profession.

Everyone turned and looked at the man wearing papal garb: Pope Hilarius II. “Well, you know what I say, 'If it’s God’s will, then He will allow us to do it. If not, He will stop us.'”

Off to the side, Ray Kurtze-Wales, the leading technocrat, futurist and all around cynic who loathed the entire lot, thought to himself: I don’t believe in God…yet. I will become God, and win this stupid bet.

the invisible realm is more prevalent than the visible- that means more things exist that we cannot see than do: yet we take stock in the facade, the seen, the mere image of reality – not the inherent, essential truths that are therein.

the lie is big, babies, so big that you can’t even see it because you cannot believe that something so big could be a lie. It’s like finding out your family is an alien entity that has commandeered your mind and imprinted this visual world upon you so they can feed off your psyche, or that the entire universe is a virtual simulation operation (it is, by the way).

so many lies have been bought by the general population that we do not want to admit that we’ve been utterly taken, bamboozled, swindled – so we buy more into the lie – thus helping to perpetuate it.

we learn to love the lie – so much so we have award ceremonies dedicated to the craft of the lie.

we vote for the lie.
we observe and imitate and teach our children about it.
we write entire volumes of histories based upon it.
we master it. we spread it. we cook it up. we paint it white, we sell it, we dish it out, we appreciate those that are good at it, we even make it seem that it’s ok (in some situations)...

we ennoble it, esteem it, worship it. we glorify the prince of it, and we take it to our grave. we accept it, want it, feel uncomfortable if someone attempts to shatter it. we crucify those that expose it, and we rarely face it.

the lie is gargantuan – grown as big as the universe itself because we have fed it with our souls...and this lie is not too big to fail - it is too big not to fail...

so the lad tripped mucho acid and lost his mind there fer awhile
remember the loneliness, the madness, the astonishing regularity with which
the dawn of new crippling incessant vultures
would plick and pluck at the brain –
the hacks yuk it up - whisper your own demise behind your back
and stare blankly at you when you would look –
and upon the odd-chance you caught one of them attempting
to usurp your soul
they would call you nuts
and call it a day.
well now, he’s wheelin’ and dealin in the free-fornow world thus far...ain’t he, captain?
polished men in alien suits pretending nothing is going on
subliminally – in the
other circuit just your best interests at interest
and if you don’t pay, that’s ok
because they’ll just take away something you
do not care about anyway – (I shall not mention it here, they might be listening in)
but I think you and I both know what we are talking about...and if you don’t, then you are not in the
“know” nor in the “right”
but you just might be “up shit creek”,
might that not be a good tourist attraction?
“Up shit creek” – check it now, before the dam bursts and shit creek becomes shit river.
“fly fishing on shit creek” and other poems, O now that’s a title with style.
too bad that
‘s all I got.
a man of titles and nothing else –
as an aside:
I read about how google mail offers “death” services in case you die, and you wish to not have a derelict, ghost account floating about cyberspace rudderless and captainless – so you can set it so after a certain amount of time inactive the account will terminate (assume you are no longer among the living) and offer an electric tombstone. “Sorry – the being you are attempting to reach is no longer in service.”
electric funerals...
digital tombstones...
"he sent many a good email"
the world wide web forges on.